


Be Mine Forever

by ThrowTheDice



Category: My Bloody Valentine (1981), My Bloody Valentine (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrowTheDice/pseuds/ThrowTheDice
Summary: You and Harry were happily living together before that horrible Valentine's Day of 1960. Now, a year later, Harry is back in town and he's out for blood. He's got his list, you just hope you aren't on it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, and as Valentine's Day is approaching I thought it would be an appropriate first foray. This is based mostly on the original movie from 1981, but I'm supplementing some information or ideas with stuff from the 2009 remake. I will add tags as things come up.

FEBRUARY 14TH, 1960

You huffed as you looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t odd for Harry to run late, but tonight wasn’t just another night. It was Valentine’s Day for Christ’s sake, and you had made it very clear to him that you were planning something extra special for tonight. He was not known to break a promise, and he had promised to be home nearly an hour ago.

The meal you had prepared was laid out on the kitchen table, along with a freshly pressed tablecloth, cloth napkins, and your nicest plates and glasses. You and your long-time boyfriend were busy people. Between the time he spent in the mines and your own work, it was rare that you two had a sit-down meal together at all, let alone one that you put so much effort into. A typical night for the two of you consisted of hurriedly eating takeout and collapsing into bed, exhausted. You had busted your ass to put this together for what was supposed to be the most romantic night of the year and what did you have to show for it? Cold food and a significant other that had gone AWOL.

You plopped down into your chair at the table, staring angrily at Harry’s unoccupied seat. You had on the red dress you wore for your first date with him and the black heels that you knew drove him wild. You kicked the impractical shoes off your feet and across the room. You thought forlornly of the lingerie you had spent a ridiculous amount of money on. It was hidden just below the thin fabric of your dress, and it was meant to be your Valentine’s present to Harry.

You shot a glare in the direction of the clock again. It still mockingly ticked on, pointing out that your man was late.

Hurt and angry, you stood and began clearing the evidence of all your effort from the table. You drank both of the glasses of wine you had poured before shoveling all the food into containers and throwing it in the fridge. Whenever Harry decided to drag his sorry ass home, he could heat it up himself. You were going to bed. He could apologize to you in the morning.

You trudged to the bedroom you shared with the cause of your current distress. You stripped yourself of the dress and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor, stepping out of the pile of red fabric and kicking it in the general direction of the closet. Next to be removed from your person was the pricey lingerie. You treated it with a bit more delicacy than the dress, folding it up and tucking it into your underwear drawer behind and beneath your more utilitarian undergarments for everyday use. You slipped on a pair of your most comfortable and least flattering panties, a bit of petty revenge on your part should Harry return home later and hope to rekindle any sort of Valentine’s passion or other such nonsense. Walking to the hamper, you pulled out one of his flannel shirts and smelled it. It smelled like pine trees and musk, and thankfully not of body odor and sweat. You slipped it over your shoulders and haphazardly buttoned a few of the buttons, deciding it fit enough to be used for pajamas.

Last but not least, you took down your carefully styled hair and removed your painstakingly applied makeup. You brushed your teeth quickly, listening for Harry’s return the whole time and hearing nothing. You thought bitterly of all the couples that were probably enjoying each other's company at the annual Valentine’s Dance. Along with that thought came another that made you grind your teeth; suppose Harry had gone with the other miners to the dance? The dance wasn’t really his scene, but maybe they had convinced him to tag along? Suppose he forgot his promise to you?

You climbed into bed, swaddling yourself in all the blankets atop the mattress, burrowing into the pillows. You found yourself with your face buried in Harry’s pillow. You inhaled, the smell of his shampoo and soap filling your senses, comforting you even as you tried to be mad at him. You wanted to cry, but you just didn’t have it in you. You were exhausted, and not just from all the wasted effort that had gone into your attempted Valentine’s surprise.

You trusted Harry and knew he wouldn’t do anything untoward, but you weren’t thrilled with the idea of him and the boys surrounded by desperate girls pining for a Valentine for the night. An uncharacteristic wave of jealousy swept over you, the thought of these random women, women you probably knew, hanging all over the man you love made that bitter feeling well and roll in your gut. Your insides churned with anxiety. The logical part of your brain knew that you had nothing to worry about, but your emotions hated the idea of someone trying to steal him away from you, even if their attempts would undoubtedly be unsuccessful.

You stared at the bedroom door for a long time, hoping to see it swing open to reveal your lover, apologies overflowing his mouth and spilling from the lips that always felt perfect pressed against your own. Your jaw stretched with a yawn and you felt the fuzzy, dark fingers of sleep closing around your mind even as your anxiety attempted to keep you awake. You fought back against the exhaustion, but it was a losing battle. The blackness of sleep drew you in slowly, even as you swore you heard someone calling your name.

 

You jolted upright in bed, clutching your arms to your chest and gasping for air. You had been suffocating beneath a crushing weight, reaching out for someone, anyone, to help you. Cold tendrils of fear still clung desperately to your heart. You reached out for Harry, you needed him to hold you to tell you it had all been just a dream. You needed his strong arms wrapped around your trembling body and his lips pressed to your hair while he whispered comforting words in the dark. Cold sheets were the only thing that greeted your reaching arms. You froze.

Turning slowly, you turned on the lamp on the nightstand. Harry’s side of the bed was indeed empty. In fact, it was untouched. Harry had not been home tonight, or at the very least he had not come to bed. Turning back to the night stand you picked up the alarm clock and stared intently at its face. It was almost an hour and a half past midnight, and still no sign of your boyfriend.

The fear that had begun to loosen its hold on you suddenly tightened its crushing grip in your chest. Your blood turned to ice as dread flowed through your veins. Something was wrong, something had to be very wrong.

You struggled out from beneath the covers, thrashing them off and stumbling to the dresser. You dug through your work clothes until you came to a pair of jeans, tugging them on and buttoning them as you staggered into the hallway. You searched every room in the house, calling Harry’s name as you went. You searched the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. You came up empty handed. His coat and boots were still gone from the mud room. The house was empty and everything was just as you left it before going to bed. Harry had not been home.

You weren’t sure if it was just the remnants of the nightmare, or if it was some sort of premonition, but something was fueling the sense of impending doom that had settled itself into your bones, finding a home in your heart. You had to find Harry. He would not have just not come home, he would have called or something at the very least. 

You tucked Harry’s flannel into the waistband of your jeans as you walked back into the bedroom to grab a pair of socks. You forced yourself to take a deep breath as you put on the socks and a pair of warm boots. You pulled your wool-lined coat over your borrowed shirt and grabbed the keys to the old, beat-up pickup truck in the garage. The forced calm was difficult to maintain, but necessary.

You wrenched open the truck’s door, wincing as it squeaked loudly in the otherwise silent garage. You all but threw yourself into the driver’s side, sliding across the worn leather of the bench seat. Your hands shook, causing you to shriek in frustration as you tried to force the keys into the ignition. When you were finally successful, it took a few tries to coax the engine into coming to life. You thanked whoever was listening when the familiar dull roar of it starting up met your ears. You peeled out of the garage with a little less care than was probably due and headed directly to the union hall in town. Thankfully, it was a short drive, but to you it had never felt longer.

You pulled up to the curb outside the familiar building and had barely shifted into park before you were throwing yourself out onto the sidewalk. You had the presence of mind to look for any of the vehicles belonging the men Harry worked with, your ill-ease only renewed itself when you saw none that you recognized. Your legs felt like lead as you pounded up the stairs, only registering the muffled sound of upbeat music as you approached the entrance. 

You yanked open the door with a little more force than was probably necessary, startling those few people standing nearby. You all but tumbled into the dimly lit room, the only lighting was a dim red glow that seemed to permeate the space. You swung your head frantically back and forth. Your eyes scanned the crowds of people standing around as well as the couples swaying back and forth and drunkenly spinning around the dancefloor. You looked for any sign of that familiar head of dark curls, yearned to find those familiar broad shoulders and strong arms.

As you continued to look, you realized that you had begun to draw stares. It was only then that you really took a moment to consider your appearance. It must have been startling to all these people that were nicely cleaned up and styled to see you stagger into the dance in an old pair of jeans, a flannel that was quite obviously too big for you, and a pair of work boots. You were sure that your hair was still disheveled, between the tossing and turning you had done while enduring that horrible nightmare and your frantic search for your significant other, it would be a miracle if it didn’t look like you had taken a wire whisk to it. You also knew that whatever makeup you had been too lazy and upset to remove completely was now streaking your reddened face.

You drew in an unsteady breath and wrapped your arms around yourself. As you attempted to ground yourself, you became aware of a familiar voice calling your name. Soon after, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You whipped around, only to come face-to-face with a man you knew to be one of Harry’s supervisors. His name was escaping you, and in the moment you really didn’t care. Upon seeing him, a wave of relief washed over you. His being there meant he could tell you where Harry was.

“(Y/N), what’s wrong, honey?”

You weren’t particularly fond of him calling you that, but you were willing to overlook it for the time being. “Is Harry here? He didn’t come home and he didn’t call me to say when he’d be back.”

“Well, he’s not here,” the older man said, scratching his head. “I bet he went to The Cage with the rest of the boys. Long day down there, probably just needed a drink”

“That must be it,” you agreed, although you weren’t entirely convinced.

The man grinned at you in a way that made your skin crawl. “Not sure why he’d want to be out with the boys when a pretty little thing like you is waiting for him at home. Especially on Valentine’s day! I bet you have something extra special planned for him tonight, huh?”

You hated the overt suggestion in his tone. You hated the way he was looking at you. You just wanted to be home with the man you love, not surrounded by all these people staring at you with varying levels of pity and disdain, and certainly not with this man making horrible assumptions about you. Despite all this, however, you attempted a smile. You were sure it came out as more of a grimace. 

“I guess I’ll head over there then. Thanks for your help.” The words sounded forced. You didn’t care.

As you turned to go, he grabbed your arm. “I’ll come with you. Gotta make sure my boys are all in one piece.”

His grip on your arm was rough. You tried to pull away but he was too strong. You grit your teeth as he stepped closer to you. He smelled like sweat and alcohol and you wanted him nowhere near you. You were thankful for the weight of your coat around your shoulder and the comfort of Harry’s flannel separating the skin of his palm from your arm.

“It’s okay, I’m fine going by myself.”

You weren’t sure if he thought you were just being polite, or if he knew that you didn’t want him to come with you and just did not care. Either way, he shook his head and smiled that same smarmy grin that set your teeth on edge. “No way, sister. I insist.”

You bit back a few choice words you had for him. You may not have liked the man, but he was still Harry’s boss and you didn’t want anything you said to reflect negatively on him. You could tell the man was not going to give in any time soon, so you decided relenting was your best move. Besides, if allowing him to accompany you meant that you could find Harry faster, you were willing to put up with the discomfort of his company for a little bit longer.

“Alright,” you said. “My truck is out front.”

He loosened his grip on your arm, and finally let go altogether. You subconsciously rubbed at the tender spot where his fingers had dug in, hoping that there wouldn’t be bruises. You could still feel everyone’s eyes on your back as you retreated towards the entrance. Those closest made a show of getting out of your way. You huffed irritably, but kept walking.

The truck was right where you had left it, lights on and lopsided parking included. You hauled yourself into the driver’s seat while Harry’s supervisor slid into the passenger side. You backed onto the street hurriedly, not at all concerned with whether or not you tossed your passenger around a little. The Cage was the only bar in Valentine Bluffs, and it was only about a three minute drive from the dance hall. That did not deter your companion from attempting to make those three minutes as painful as possible for you.

“You know, we keep asking Warden when he’s planning on marrying you. I’m sure a sweet thing like you can’t wait to get to starting a family.”

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes. Opting to stay silent.

It seemed this was the type of man that just loved to hear himself talk, unfortunately, as he took your silence as his cue to continue talking. “He certainly hit the jackpot with you. Gorgeous girl like you could have any man she wanted in this town or the next. Our boy Harry better put a ring on that little finger of yours soon or someone else might swoop in and take you for himself.”

“He doesn’t need to worry about that,” you ground out through gritted teeth. “I’m very happy with Harry.”

A harsh bark of laughter filled the cab. “You say that, but just you wait. Some young man from the next county will sweep you off your feet and whisk you away. Happened to me with my sweetie when I was a young man.”

“I can’t imagine why,” you muttered.

“You say something?”

“Just that we’re here,” you replied coolly, pulling up to the curb outside the town’s only bar.

Your heart dropped as you looked at the building. All the lights were off, and even the normally glowing neon sign that hung above the entrance was cold and dark. Closer examination of the door revealed a handmade sign that was taped to the old wood.  _ Closed for the Valentine’s Dance _ the words read. Below that was the normal hours. You read the words again and again as your mind fished around for answers, for some sort of solution or explanation.

You looked over to Harry’s supervisor to ask if they had mentioned going anywhere while they were at work earlier, however your question died in your throat when you saw his wide eyes and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. His shoulders were stiff, and his mouth opened and closed as he struggled to find words. His wild gaze was fixated on the hand-painted words on the door.

“Where is he?” You asked, voice cracking despite barely coming out as more than a whisper.

He said nothing, he didn’t even look at you.

You grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. “Where is Harry?” You demanded, nearly screaming in his face as you shook him sharply.

He grabbed your wrists and tore your accusing hands away from his person. “I don’t know,” he admitted, voice sharp.

_ Do not panic.  _ You told yourself mentally.  _ There has to be some sort of logical explanation. Maybe he took someone home and lost track of time.  _

You said nothing as you threw the truck into drive and tore down the street towards the house belonging to Jim, one of the men in Harry’s crew, and his wife Rhonda. If the idiot in the seat next to you didn’t know where your boyfriend was, maybe Jim would or could at least point you in the right direction.

Your passenger was much quieter during this drive.

The small house came into view as you sped around a corner. All the lights were off, but you weren’t going to let that deter you. The yellow siding looked odd under the light provided by your headlights. Jim’s truck was not in the driveway, but you placated your whirling thoughts by telling yourself it was in the garage and that Jim was inside and would tell you exactly where Harry was. You pulled into the driveway, leaving the truck running as you hopped out and hurried up to the front door. You knocked repeatedly on the the old wood, nearing frantic when the the lights didn’t immediately come on.

Finally, a lone window illuminated on the second floor. You bounced on your toes impatiently as you watched lights turn on inside the house in a path leading to the door. You heard grumbling from the other side and the sound of a lock being undone. You were nearly blinded as the porch lights came on and the front door was yanked open.

“(Y/N)?” A feminine voice asked, sounding annoyed and groggy. “It’s two in the morning. I got kids asleep upstairs, what’s wrong?”

You looked past Rhonda in her turquoise housecoat, matching slippers, and the curlers in her bright red hair, into the front entry. “I need to talk to Jim.”

Rhonda scoffed. “That good-for-nothing never came home. After 13 years of marriage Valentine’s Day is just like any other apparently. Would rather go out with the boys than see his wife.”

It felt like someone had knocked the air out of your lungs. “Jim never came home?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

Your head was spinning now. A horrible, gut-wrenching idea was worming its way into your brain. The possibility had been there, but you had pushed it away. You felt the color drain from your face as you steadied yourself against the door jamb. You met Rhonda’s gaze, eyes pleading with her to tell you that she was joking.

You watched the realization dawn on her face too.

Anyone involved with the mining operation in Valentine Bluffs knew that there was a certain degree of danger involved. Every wife and girlfriend knew that there was a very real possibility that their significant other could be hurt or worse on the job, this was an accepted fact of life. However, you had grown complacent, had believed that it would never happen here. Here in Valentine Bluffs, at the Hanniger Mine, the men would head off to work in the morning and come home at night. You were safe, they were safe.

This couldn’t be happening to you.

“Well, didn’t Harry come home?” She asked, looking past you into the yard as if she expected to see her husband coming up the way behind you. “The-The dance. They’re there. Or the bar! Drinks with the boys, like I said.”

You couldn’t look at her stricken face. You held your head in your hands and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. “No, no, I checked there already. Their supervisor hasn’t seen them either.”

There was a pregnant silence. Neither of you wanted to say it. You couldn’t breathe life into the sentiment, speaking the words would make them real, would place the possibility on the table. 

You heard the words before you realized you were saying them, “I’m going to the mine. Stay here in case Jim comes home, maybe Harry is with him.”

“I’ll call the sheriff,” Rhonda said calmly, as if both of your worlds weren’t on the precipice of tumbling down around you.

Your body felt numb as you turned and walked back to your truck. You would have thought that your mind would be racing, but it was strangely still. You slid back into the driver’s side for the third time that night, not bothering to look at the man that was still stock still beside you. You reversed down the drive slowly, mind in a fog. You supposed that you were avoiding what seemed inevitable. The leather of the steering wheel was cool beneath your fingers.

“We’re going to the mine,” you said quietly.

“Oh,” your passenger responded, apparently nonplussed by this news. You supposed that he understood the implications of the situation as well.

The drive was silent. You did not bother to turn on the radio. The buzzing of thoughts on the fringe of your consciousness was all the white noise you could possibly need. Your truck sailed across the asphalt, carving through the still night air. The buildings you passed were just a blur in your peripheral. The further from the residential area you drove, the more the buildings thinned out, until the only things flanking you were the pine trees. When the normally sleepy town of Valentine Bluffs was just a distant memory on the horizon, the road grew rough with loose stones and potholes. The rocks were kicked up by the rubber tread of your tires and knocked against the chassis of the vehicle with a steady  _ plink-plink-plink _ . Finally, the path gave up on the asphalt mask all together and deteriorated into loose gravel and debris. As you crested a hill, your eyes focused in on something that made your heart clench and pump ice water through your veins.

Clouds of smoke billowed up out of the entrance of the mine that had just come into your field of vision. The thick, black haze blotted out the old Hanniger Mine signage and choked out the light coming from the twinkling stars hanging in the sky, just as the mere sight of it stole the air from your lungs. That tightness you had grown unnervingly familiar with over the course of the night was back in your chest, and this time it seemed that it was here to stay.

You grasped the steering wheel just a little tighter. Your knuckles would have been white were it not for the redness and bruising caused by your frantic pounding on Rhonda’s front door. You pressed the gas pedal down just a little further, intent on hurtling head first into your worst nightmare. The familiar cars, trucks, and SUVs only confirmed what you already knew: the men were still inside the mine that was coughing up that horrible smoke. The soft tapping of loose gravel turned quickly into loud thunks as the truck picked up speed.

You skidded to a stop when you finally remembered the need to brake. Your rapidly spinning tires struggled to find purchase and protested loudly. You thought distantly that you were going to spin out, but were thankful incorrect in that assessment. Just as soon as you were stopped, you were turning off the engine and hopping out, hurrying towards the entrance. The roiling blackness consumed you. You could not see anything through the unnatural screen blocking out your vision, yet you were willing to press forward. Unfortunately for you, the smoke was quick to turn you away.

You coughed, hacked, and wheezed as you struggled back towards the truck. Your eyes cleared enough to watch the supervisor step out of the passenger side. His eyes were wide and his skin was pallid under the obscured light of the nearly full moon. He made no move to help you or acknowledge your presence as he stared with what could only be described as pure horror at the scene laid out in front of him.

Seeing him like this caused a corrosive, acidic feeling to filter through you. You hated him. Even as the tears burned your eyes and the smoke coated your airway, you saw red. He had allowed this to happen and you were helpless to do anything. Hatred filled you to the brim, so much so that you were sure the acrid substance would spill from your eyes, your ears and your mouth. You ached and you  _ burned _ .

You thought of Harry. He was down there. You tried to hope for the best, but your mind produced nothing but images of his cold body. You saw him mangled beneath collapsed boulders, burned alive from the heat of the explosion, and suffocated in the dark. Your heart twisted and shattered, suffocated in the dark cavern of your own chest.

Just as you were beginning to regain your breath, you heard the sirens in the distance. Rhonda had done as she promised and called the police. You briefly wondered if you would have time to wrap your fingers as tight as you could around the thick neck of the man in front of you before they arrived. You wanted to squeeze the air from his lungs and chase the light out of his eyes. He deserved to be trapped in that darkness, suffocating as the inky blackness stole his breath away. It should be him, not those men, not your Harry.

The sirens were close now, close enough to make your ears ring. You could see the red and blue lights against the gravel and against the smoke cloud. A bitter part of your mind regretted that you would not get to give the man in front of you what he so desperately deserved, but a more hopeful part of your soul sang with the prospect of rescuers here to return your love to you.

The flicker of hope drove your violent desires away, but it took all your energy merely to keep the little flame burning. Your body was finally beginning to feel the effects of your wild goose chase around town. You sagged against the bed of your truck as you heard the sirens stop and the tires grind to a halt behind you. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!  
> Originally I wanted to get this posted this morning, but I spent all day reworking it. I'm still not completely thrilled with this chapter, but I really wanted to get something posted for International Harry Warden Day.  
> I don't imagine this ending up being a particularly long fic, but I would like to have some sort of schedule for when I will be updating. Ideally I would like to update Sunday nights moving forward. We'll see.

The next six weeks were hell. Rescue teams worked day and night to uncover the men buried beneath the rubble. You had initially tried to join the men that donned the mining gear and removed debris, but they turned you away, saying it was no place for a woman. Still you showed up at the mine everyday. You and Rhonda stood by, holding hands and watching the maddeningly slow pace of their progress. There was no means of communication with the men down below, no way of knowing if Harry was still alive, if any of them were still alive. You begged them to move faster, to let you help, but every time you were told that they were doing the best they could and that you needed to stay out of their way.

You couldn’t sleep. You could barely eat. Harry was alive, you told yourself. He had to be. But you knew that he and the other men did not have access to food, they would have very little water if any, and eventually they would run out of air.

The other girlfriends and wives of the men down below showed up to the mine too, their friends and parents as well. You all wore nearly identical expressions of anxious fear and worry. Yet, as the weeks dragged on, the number of people that showed up began to dwindle and thin. People began to lose hope, to give up on finding the men alive. The fear was that there would be no rescue, that they were now just trying to recover bodies. Soon enough, it was only you and Rhonda there to watch the rescue workers come in and out of the mine, and you suspected that she was only there to support you. 

She talked about what she would do without Jim, how she and the kids would get by. You tried to listen and commiserate, but you couldn’t understand how she could just give up. You knew that Harry was down there just waiting for someone to find him and bring him back to you. You knew he wouldn’t give up, so you refused to let yourself give into hopelessness. You tried to express this to Rhonda, but she just gave you a sad smile.

Finally, after four weeks, Rhonda told you she couldn’t come with you the next day as you dropped her off at her home. 

“I have to look after my kids and get back to work. I need to put food on the table somehow,” she explained, with a sheepish look.

You understood, of course, and you told her as much. Still, you couldn’t help the cold feeling that swept through you, making you shiver. Hugging your coat tighter around your body, you pretended that it was just that cold late-winter air making you feel this way.

She squeezed your hand between her chilled fingers in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture before wrapping her hand-knitted scarf around her neck and opening the passenger door. You felt very alone watching her retreating form shuffle up to her front door. She waved as you pulled away and headed for home. You forced yourself to return the gesture.

You pulled into the garage and trudged into the house, turning on the lights before stripping yourself of your coat, hat, and boots. You weren’t sure which you hated more, waiting around helplessly at Hanniger Mine all day, or coming home to an empty house where everything was a stark reminder that Harry wasn’t there. 

Every day you ate at the little yellow kitchen table that you had found second hand and the two of you had fixed up and painted together. Harry had hated the yellow, but you thought it was cheerful. His towel was still hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and a little pang went through your heart every time you caught the faded navy blue in your peripheral. Even seeing his soap and shampoo in the shower was difficult, resulting in tears on more than one occasion.

The worst room in the small house, however, was the bedroom. Most of Harry’s things were in there, untouched and unmoved. You wanted everything to be just where he had left it when he got home, but this frame of mind just made you miss him more. You had taken to bringing one of his shirts with you to bed at night, burying your face into the garment clenched in your hands. You barely slept, but the familiar smell of him on the soft fabric offered some comfort and helped you to get what little rest you could.

As the sixth week of helpless waiting passed you by, you were suffering a particularly rough night. Unable to bear being in the bedroom alone, you had migrated to the old couch in the living room, wrapping yourself in an afghan and trying to get as much sleep as possible. You were in and out, tossing and turning with terrible nightmares and unable to get comfortable on the admittedly lumpy sofa. This went on for the majority of the night, and the sky was beginning to grow pale with the impending sunrise when you finally began to doze off.

That was when the phone rang.

You jolted upright. The afghan was flung off to some far corner in your mad dash to get to the phone. Its shrill, screaming ring filled the whole house. You nearly tumbled as you all but dove to answer the shrieking machine.

“Yes? Hello?” You answered breathlessly before the cool plastic had even hit your ear.

“(Y/N),” you recognized the voice to be Deputy Newby.

Your heart was in your throat. “What’s happened?”

“We broke through, (Y/N). Harry is alive.”

What happened next was a blur to you. You dropped the receiver and ran around the house like a chicken with its head cut off, grabbing and putting on clothes and your keys as you went. You somehow managed to put your boots and coat on before you found yourself in your truck and flying down the road that you had become intimately familiar with over the past six weeks. The tumbling gravel was like a routine now, but for once it didn’t fill you with dread.

Had you been paying more attention, you would have noted the strain in the deputy’s voice. Had you stayed and listened, he would have warned you that the Harry Warden they found in the mine with the barely recognizable corpses of the rest of his crew was not the Harry you knew and loved. He would have told you that the man they found was near deranged, delusional and violent. He would have told you not to come to the mines.

But you hadn’t heard any of that.

As you pulled up to the Hanniger mine, the first thing you saw was the ambulance. You rushed towards it, hoping to find Harry inside but seeing nothing. Then you heard the commotion happening over by the entrance to the mine. You followed the sound with your eyes, spotting a group of men seemingly struggling against each other, almost like there was a fight happening.

Looking closer, you realized that it was really just a number of men trying to hold onto one man. Harry. He was covered head to toe in black soot and dirt. His dark hair was matted to his head with sweat and what looked like blood. He pulled violently against the people holding onto him and leading him forward, wrenching his body this way and that, thrashing his head.

You let instinct take over and sprinted towards him, your heart soaring with the knowledge that he was alive and here in front of you. You could think of nothing but your intense need to wrap your arms around him and just feel him against you, almost like you needed that tangible proof that he was really here. You were just a few yards away when a different pair of arms yanked you backwards.

“No, (Y/N)!”

You struggled against their hold like your life depended on it. “Let me go! I need to go to him!”

“Not now. He’s dangerous.”

The rational part of your brain recognized that the owner of both the voice and the arms was Deputy Newby. The irrational part of your brain couldn’t care less. Harry would never hurt you.

“Harry!” You cried, continuing your attempts to wiggle free of the officer’s hold on you.

Harry’s head whipped towards you with such sharpness that you thought it would fly right off his shoulders. He was close enough now that you could see the wild look in his wide, dark eyes. They looked like the eyes of a cornered animal, too scared to do anything but lash out. For a heart stopping moment, he looked at you like he didn’t even know who you were. He stopped struggling against the plethora of hands pushing him, and just stared at you with that crazed look.

Then he lunged.

You recoiled as he dove for you. The men surrounding him just barely managed to regain control as one of Harry’s soot and blood-stained hands clawed through the air in your direction. He shrieked and he  _ howled  _ as they dragged him towards the ambulance and away from you. He was yelling and yelling and yelling, the words incomprehensible to any present, but ceaseless and vehement.

You were frozen in place, unable to resist as the deputy dragged you backwards towards your truck. “Don’t look, honey,” he advised.

But you had to look. You stared on with wide-eyed shock as they all but tossed Harry into the back of the ambulance, strapping him into a gurney even as he cursed and yowled, fighting them every step of the way. Your heart broke a little more with every animalistic sound that came out of him. The doors to the ambulance closed, muffling the sound of him.

As soon as your line of sight to Harry was severed, you felt all of your exhaustion from the past few weeks crash down upon your shoulders, nearly crushing you beneath its weight. You leaned heavily against Newby, eyes never leaving the closed doors of the ambulance. You felt dazed, like this was all some horrible dream. You didn’t even realize that you had spoken until you heard your own voice.

“Where are they taking him?”

“Hospital, for the time being.”

You swallowed hard. You wanted to ask what was wrong with him. Why had he lashed out at you like that? Didn’t he recognize you? You had known that he wouldn’t come out of the experience unscathed, but the man you had just seen, the man that had tried to attack you, was not even a shadow of the one you knew.

Newby pushed you up so that you were standing on your own, but he kept his hands on your upper arms. “Listen, (Y/N). I tried to warn you, but Harry is the only one of the men still alive. He did some things to survive that just aren’t human.”

Your head was spinning but you tried to focus on what he was telling you.It didn’t make sense and it didn’t seem that he was going to explain further. 

Harry was the only one that survived? You thought of Rhonda and her now fatherless children, and guilt swept through you when you thought of how glad you were that that was not you. Harry may have been changed, he might be acting strangely, but he was alive. Rhonda would never have Jim back.

You slowly focused back in on Newby standing in front of you. He was staring at you with more pity and concern than you cared to see. You wouldn’t say that you were close with the deputy, but had become familiar with him through the course of the rescue effort. You shrugged his grasp off, sliding away from him and walking towards your truck. Unsurprisingly, he followed close behind.

“What hospital are they taking him to?”

“(Y/N), I really don’t think-”

“What hospital, Newby?” You asked again, more firmly this time.

He sighed and ran an agitated hand through his hair, but he told you what you wanted to know.

You thanked him with a quick word and a nod before driving off, more than happy to watch the mine recede in your rearview. If you ever saw it again, it would be too soon.

 

When you got to the hospital in the next county, you explained to the nurse at the front desk why you were there. She asked how you were related to “the patient”. You told her that you were his girlfriend and that you desperately needed to see him. She gave you a look of barely concealed disdain and explained that only spouses or immediate family members were allowed to visit patients. You explained through gritted teeth that Harry didn’t have any other family, even throwing in a lie about how you were engaged and set to be married in the spring. She looked pointedly at your empty ring finger and gave you the ever infuriating “It’s out of my hands” speech. 

You went back everyday for the next few days, until they told you he had been transferred to the state mental hospital under court order. Your brows had furrowed at this. Why had no one told you? Surely Newby had known about the transfer.

It was a great deal further to drive to the state mental hospital, but you were more than willing to do so. Still, when you got there, you were stopped at the gate and they told you the same thing you had been told at the hospital, but under much stricter terms. They refused to even confirm for you that Harry was actually there at all.

You were sent back home with nothing to show for it, and you felt further from having Harry back than when you began.

While you were focused on gaining access to Harry, the town had recovered the dead. At least, what was left of them. A couple of the men had been killed by the initial explosion and subsequent collapse of the mine shaft. The other two bodies were torn apart and mutilated almost beyond recognition. The sheriff did his best to keep the details quiet, but Valentine Bluffs was a small town, and like most small towns news travels like wildfire. 

Unbeknownst to you, the already gory details were being further sensationalized as the rumors spread from person to person. Almost over night, in the eyes of the town Harry Warden went from reserved but not disliked miner to bloodthirsty, cannibalistic serial killer. People were in mourning, their grief driving them to look for someone to blame, and it was easy to turn a traumatized survivor into the Boogeyman, especially when his rescue could only be described as nothing less than antagonistic.

These newly formed opinions were split when it came to you. To half the town you had always been a loose woman, living with a man you weren’t married to. Those that had been of this opinion were the first to proclaim you guilty by association. The other half pitied you, there were whispers that you would have been better off if Harry had died like the others.

The following weeks were dark ones in the sleepy little town of Valentine Bluffs. There were four closed casket funerals in rapid succession, only one of which you were invited to. Seeing Rhonda and her little ones dressed all in black chipped away at your already broken heart. Then there was the memorial service for all the miners. You went to show your support to the friends and family members of the men who had died, but it felt wrong for you to be there.

Both of Harry’s old supervisors spoke at the memorial, talking about how hard-working and brave all the men who worked in the mines were. They said the lives that were lost would never be forgotten, how it was unfair that they were taken from the community before their time. You seethed listening to their hollow words. It was their fault that this had happened in the first place, but everyone seemed to forget that. As far as you could tell, the whole thing had been chalked up to some freak accident, an act of God that couldn’t have possibly been prevented.

After that, life just sort of continued on. You refused to say that things went back to normal, because they didn’t. Your life was irrevocably changed, shaken to its foundation, but you had no choice but to continue living it. You went to work, you came home, you tried to get used to sleeping alone. You still never touched any of Harry’s things besides the shirt that had become a permanent fixture in your bed. It tore your heart to shreds when you realized his smell on it was fading.

The months came and went, each one no more remarkable than the one prior. The seasons shifted as time continued to pass you by. The cold winds of winter slowly warmed into spring, chased rapidly by the muggy heat of summer. The dog days faded away into crisp air and crunching leaves, followed once more by the harsh bite of winter wind, snow, and ice.

You and Rhonda continued to see and support each other to the best of your abilities. She was one of the few people that neither pitied nor disliked you. You helped her with her children when you could, welcoming the time away from the lonely time capsule that was your house. You became a regular fixture at their dinner table. You tried to help out with groceries and the like when you could, but Rhonda was a proud woman and refused anything she considered charity from you. 

When the final days of January gave way to the beginning of February, you felt yourself grow apprehensive. When the first red and white decorations appeared, that anxiety continued to bloom within you. Cupids and hearts littered the homes and storefronts of Valentine Bluffs, and each addition to the preparations for the town’s namesake felt like another weight on your already heavy heart. 

You became reclusive as the anniversary of the accident drew near, wanting to avoid the reminders of that night as much as possible. Thankfully your boss was a fairly understanding and reasonable person, giving you the 14th off. However, not being at work meant that you were at home. Alone.

You spent most of the actual day in bed, clinging desperately to Harry’s flannel shirt, thought it had long since lost any traces of his scent, and sobbing intermittently. You had heard nothing about him or his well-being since he had been sent to the state mental hospital. You had at one point thought that perhaps Deputy Newby would be able to inquire on your behalf since Harry was there under court order, but all of your pleading had ultimately proved fruitless. When he had finally given into your begging and called, the only information he could gain was that Harry was indeed committed there.

As the afternoon rolled on, you dragged yourself out of bed to get dressed. The widows and families of the men killed a year ago were gathering together before the Valentine’s Dance to have a small service in honor of the dead. You, of course, had not been invited, but you were watching the children for Rhonda. She felt that they didn’t need to be reminded of such a tragedy and decided to go by herself.

When you arrived at their small house, you were struck by a twisted sort of deja vu. You had been to Rhonda’s home many times since the horrible night that seemed so long ago, and yet on its anniversary you could hardly look at the yellow siding or the old wood of the front door. You knocked lightly, trying not to imagine how it had felt when you were desperately slamming your fists against the cool surface.

When Rhonda answered the door she looked worn-out. You could still picture her in her curlers and housecoat, haloed by the hall light. She wore a black dress now, and her red hair was shorter. She had cut it a few months prior, claiming that she needed a change. Wordlessly she drew you into a tight hug, a gesture you returned. You weren’t sure if she was trying to comfort you or herself. Either way, you were starving for the physical reassurance the embrace provided.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said quietly. You suspected that the children were in the kitchen just down the hall and she didn’t want them to hear your conversation.

“It’s no trouble,” you replied.

She laughed humorlessly. “I wish you could come with me.”

You both knew that you couldn’t.

She excused herself quickly after your initial exchange, telling you that she wouldn’t be gone for more than an hour. You told her to take her time, that you and the children would be fine.

The hour passed quickly, uneventfully. You fed the children their early dinner and sat with them in front of the television. Staring blankly at the moving pictures on the screen and fighting off the thoughts that were swarming your mind, you barely heard when your friend returned.

She looked more tired than she had when she left, and the tears staining her cheeks were apparent. You were struck then, not for the first time, how different your situation was from hers. This woman that had been a beacon of strength for you over the past year, had welcomed you into her home and into her family, had suffered such an unimaginable loss. Harry was still living and breathing, and as long as that remained true you had hope of seeing him again. Jim was gone forever, buried beneath six feet of impassive earth. She had to live with his loss and remain strong for the sake of the children that she was now raising on her own.

You felt a wave of guilt for feeling so sorry for yourself.

She thanked you again for watching the kids. You said nothing, but now it was your time to initiate a tight hug. You hoped it was enough to communicate all you felt. You wanted her to know how much you admired her as well as how sorry you were. She squeezed you back and buried her face in your shoulder, tears silently soaking the fabric of your sweater.

You wished her a good night and said goodbye to the children. You drove home in silence. Even your normally restless thoughts were quiet.

You pulled into the garage and killed the truck’s engine. A long sigh flowed from your lungs and through your lips. Ahead of you was an evening of silence. You would shower and go to bed, you didn’t think that you would be able to stomach any food that night. The truck’s door swung open lazily, and you exited the vehicle with that same sluggish energy. Your keys clinked against each other loudly in the silence of the garage, and when you had finally retrieved the house key you reached towards the lock.

The door swung inwards when your fingers met the knob.

You froze in place, pulse racing in your ears. You were sure that you had locked that door behind you when you left. It was a habit, the garage was far from secure and you wanted to make sure that no one would be able to get into the house. At the very least, you were sure that you hadn’t left the door ajar.

You took a cautious step inside. The house was dark, illuminated only by the light of the slowly setting sun. You felt around the wall for the lightswitch, flicking it on when your searching fingers found it. But nothing happened. You flipped it up and down a few more times just to make sure, cursing under your breath when the lights still did not turn on.

Your tongue darted out to lick your dry lips nervously as you shuffled further into the house. You strained to listen for any sound at all, but there were none that you could detect. For all intents and purposes, it seemed that the house was empty. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

You headed towards the bedroom, intent on checking the lights in there and then grabbing a flashlight if your fears were confirmed and the power was out in the whole house. As you neared the door, you heard an odd sound. It almost sounded like someone breathing, but it was off. More labored, almost mechanical, distorted. You approached the opening as slowly and quietly as you could. You were almost close enough to see into the room, just a few more steps. You pressed yourself against the wall and leaned towards the doorway. Just a little further and…

And the coat closet behind you burst open.

You shrieked in a mixture of fear and surprise, turning just in time to see a dark silhouette charge towards you, the light from the headlamp they wore blinded you until they were within an arm’s length of you and by then it was too late for you to run. The gloved-hand that was not gripping a pickaxe clamped down on the back of your neck, catching some of your hair and nearly ripping it out of your scalp. The stinging pain was eclipsed by the adrenaline and pervasive, unadulterated terror flowing within you. You stared in horror at the soulless gas mask glaring down at you.

 

Harry’s thoughts were pure chaos and his heartbeat thundered in his ears covering the sound of his harsh breathing reverberating inside the mask. He had been thinking about this moment all year. You had abandoned him, just like everyone else. You, the person who had been most important to him, the one that professed to love him, the one he had trusted above all others.

He had almost a full year in the state mental hospital to think about your betrayal. He needed to make you feel what he felt, you needed to answer for your actions. The only way justice could be served, the only way he could deliver the full force of his revenge, would be to take an eye for an eye.

You had ripped his heart from his chest, now he would return the favor in kind.

Of course, he knew that you wouldn’t let him exact your punishment without a fight. He was almost proud of you for the struggle you put forth. You kicked and you screamed and you clawed at any part of him you could reach, but his death grip on the back of your neck never wavered as he pushed you back towards the wall. His hand choked up on the neck of the pickaxe as he used it to keep your chin raised and your wide, fear-filled eyes on the impassive face of his mask. Your body hit the wall hard, and he heard you wheeze as the breath was slammed from your lungs. He pushed his weapon further into your throat, preventing you from recovering the lost oxygen. Your eyes bulged and your face turned red as you gasped for air, hands clutching and clawing uselessly against the thick fabric protecting his arms.

So focused was he on holding you in place, slowly crushing your airway with the rounded head of the pickaxe, that he failed to notice your dominant hand reaching towards him. At least until he felt your fingers pry underneath the mask. He tried to jerk his head away, but it was too little too late as you ripped the facade away.

In trying to escape your grasping hands, he had loosened his hold and the pressure on your windpipe just enough for you to greedily suck in a lungful of air, which summarily froze in your throat as you glimpsed the oh so familiar face underneath the gas mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think your reunion with your man would be all sunshine and rainbows did you?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm uploading this chapter a day later than I wanted to, but I didn't want to half-ass it. I'm seeing this as the penultimate chapter, so I think the next one will be the last. This one is a little shorter than previous chapters, so I hope you can forgive me for that!

For a moment, there was an unbearable stillness. You stared in abject horror at the face of the man you loved while he pinned you to the wall with an unrelenting strength. Your breathing was hoarse and rough, but you tried to stay quiet. You feared that the smallest sound from you would break whatever spell had fallen over him when you had managed to rip the mask away from his face. Said mask along with the hard hat and headlamp were now at your feet, the light from the lamp illuminated the coat closet that Harry had appeared from, the hanging garments casting sinister shadows against the back wall. 

None were more threatening than the shadow of a man before you, nearly panting as he breathed heavily in your face, warm breath cascading over your features. He had never looked at you with the unbridled rage that now whipped across his dark irises and curled inside the blackness of his dilated pupils. It was enough to make anyone afraid.

And you  _ were _ afraid.

You had never been afraid of Harry before. This vision of dark fury that loomed over you in the cramped closeness of the darkened hallway certainly looked like the man you loved, but it couldn’t possibly be him. Harry was all thick skin and hardened plains of muscle, but he had always been soft with you. The harsh grip on your neck was not even an echo of the gentleness you had once experienced beneath these same hands.

You trembled under the force of his crazed stare, the flames of his rage burned you. Your own eyes were wide and brimmed with tears. You had been dreaming of seeing Harry for months, but now that he was here standing over you and seething, you found it hard to believe you weren’t in a nightmare.

You expected him to recover and clamp back down on your neck but the seconds stretched on and nothing happened, you were left in an agonizing limbo. The only sounds filling the space was your own strained breathing intermingling with Harry’s. Everything was so still. Your body was taut with anxiety, and Harry was crackling with an unknown energy that assaulted your senses. His eyes that had held you captive just as much as the unyielding grip he had on you were seeking something in your countenance, but you couldn’t imagine that he found much more than fear.

Your mind was blank, frozen like a deer in the headlights, leaving you with no ideas for how to get out of the situation. You desperately wanted to think of something to say to talk him down. Half of you still wanted to throw your arms around him and sob with joy at his return, even if he was still looking at you like he wanted nothing more than to snap your neck beneath his fingers. The other half of you, the admittedly more rational part, still refused to recognize the brutal shadow before you as Harry.

You felt cold sweat gather at your hairline and roll down your back. Warmth spilled down your reddened cheeks, but you were far too stricken to recognize that you were crying. You choked down sobs and gasps, trying to keep your breathing level. Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth, and your throat felt you had swallowed sandpaper.

Anger still simmered behind his eyes, but you watched with rapt attention as something different passed across his features. You hoped the subtle shift was an indication that he was coming back to himself, maybe whatever darkness had taken hold of him was receding. Maybe, you thought, you could reach him if you could just get your mouth to cooperate.

“Harry…”

Your voice sounded hoarse and breathy in your own ears. If not for the oppressive silence that encapsulated the both of you, you weren’t sure the whispered words would have even been audible. However, based on the way Harry’s entire body stiffened, he had heard you just fine. A tense moment hung in the suffocating space between the two of you as you stared each other down. With no adverse reaction from the man before you to the broken silence, you felt emboldened to continue.

“Please-”

The word had barely escaped your parted lips before a hardened resolve overtook Harry’s features. The fingers on the back of your neck clamped down harder than they had even before, and you were sure this time that some of your now sweat dampened hair was ripped out. He pulled you away from the wall and forced you through the doorway into your darkened bedroom. You stumbled over your leaden feet as he hauled you further by the scruff of your neck. 

You shrieked and pleaded, though your words fell on deaf ears. Your thoughts were stained by the overwhelming fear and adrenaline that flooded your system. Again and again in your mind’s eye you watched Harry throw you to the ground and drive the pickaxe he had threatened you with into your chest. You could all but feel the cold steel cut easily through flesh and bone with ease, ending its path only when it was buried in your heart and sated by your blood.

But that never happened.

Instead, he turned hard and headed towards the ensuite. You clawed at the hand on the back of your neck, trying to pry his fingers off. Your efforts were fruitless as he did not budge, he continued dragging you towards whatever he had planned for you. As he reached the doorway, he shoved you past him with so much force you stumbled forward until your shins hit the edge of the tub, nearly causing you to go tumbling through the shower curtain and into the tub.

You steadied yourself with a hand on the paper-covered wall just in time to hear the bathroom door slam behind you. You were shocked for a moment, standing stock-still in the middle of the tile. The sound of something heavy scraping across the floor shook you from your petrification. You knew Harry was still out there based on the heavy footsteps against the old wooden floors. You looked around the bathroom for something to help you. You saw the frosted glass of the small window above the toilet, but knew that it offered you less than nothing. 

When you and Harry had first bought the home, it had been in need of some repair. Most of the work you two had done by yourselves, working hard to turn the house into something you could both be proud of. However, some things had required assistance from professionals. A simple miscommunication with one such “professional” had led to the bathroom window being caulked and painted shut. An unfortunate oversight that you had not gotten around to fixing.

That meant that your only other option for escape was the door connected to your bedroom. You shuffled towards the door as silently as you could, pressing your ear to the painted wood and closing your eyes to focus on the sounds coming through.

 

Harry stared with mixed emotions at the heavy chest of drawers that now inhabited the spot in front of the bathroom door. He berated himself, body shaking with a directionless, shapeless anger. This was not what he had planned at all. You were still alive and well, probably shaken up but hardly the worse for wear. He had his list for that night, and you were at the top of it. He had had you. You were right there in his grasp, trembling and terrified. Everything was exactly as he had envisioned it, and then you had ruined it.

The sound of his headgear hitting the ground had been one of the loudest he had ever heard. When he looked back at your face he had seen the fear flee from your features fleetingly, replaced briefly by recognition and shock. He had imagined himself a ghost from your past, a terrible specter returned to force you to face your wrongdoing, but you didn’t look at him like that. Then the fear had come flooding back into your eyes, but along with it was a sort of disbelief, like you didn’t understand why he had to do this.

You had stopped struggling against him completely, frozen and tense in his grasp. It was the perfect time for him to finish what he had started, but something stayed his hand. Being this close to you without the added protection of his gas mask, he was filled by the heady scent of your perfume. Memories beat against the walls he had built around his mind and heart, but he did his best to stave them off, adamantly forcing away the thought of your soft skin beneath his bare fingertips.

Why? Why couldn’t he just finish off the job he had come here to do? It would be so easy. He already had the fragile column of your neck in his grip. A little more pressure would snap the delicate bones house within, so why couldn’t he find the will to do just that?

“Harry…” His name rolled off your tongue with familiarity. Your soft voice slipped from between equally soft lips to caress his ears like a song, and then he knew  _ why _ .

He still loved you.

The realization crashed down on him like a wave and suddenly he was drowning. He had spent months hating you for abandoning him, for forgetting about him, for leaving him to rot alone crushed under the weight of what he had done and what he still wanted to do. He was hurt. Yes, he was hurt, but more than that he was livid. After all this time how could he possibly still harbor these traitorous, poisonous feelings?

He was so wrapped up in the conflict in his own mind that he had nearly forgotten you, the catalyst for it all, until your wobbly voice filled the silence once more. 

“Please-”

Your lips had barely shaped around the word before his vision was filled with red. Then he was dragging you into your once shared bedroom and all but throwing you into the small adjoining bathroom. He quickly spotted the tall, sturdy chest of drawers that had housed his clothes at one point, but he was sure those were long gone. He threw his body weight into shoving the piece of furniture in front of the bathroom door. That should prevent you from going anywhere.

His plans had changed, it would seem, at least in regards to dealing with you. He still had two others on his list to visit tonight, and then he could figure out what to do with you. Save the best for last, as it were.

He turned on his heel and headed for the door. He had to work fast, he only had a couple of hours before the dance at the union hall was set to begin. It would be the last dance, if he had his way. And he  _ would _ have his way.

He picked up his mask and headgear as he passed them in the hallway. He affixed the items back on his person, and as the mask came back over his face he felt the uncertainty lift off his shoulders and felt a clarity that had been lost to him previously. His heavy, purposeful steps led him to the garage door he had entered before. You had not bothered to change where the spare key was hidden, and it now resided in the breast pocket of his coveralls as he set out into the fading light of the evening.

Excitement and anxiety flowed through him as he stalked the streets. He would finally,  _ finally  _ have the revenge he craved. He had been to Hell because of the two men on his list. They had sent him to Hell but he had clawed and fought and done unspeakable things to make sure he made it out and it all led back to this moment.

The first lived alone. Harry entered the back door as quietly as possible, his task made more difficult by the sound of his breathing in the mask and the squeaky hinges of the old storm door. He found himself in a dimly lit kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink and a worn kitchen table was littered with empty beer cans and water rings. The television in the adjoining living room was blaring loudly, although the tattered couch and well-used recliner were vacant. A mostly empty heart-shaped candy box on the coffee table caught his attention briefly before he moved on. 

Light spilled across dingy carpet from a cracked door deeper within the house. Harry moved through the shadows with an almost unnatural ease, slipping through the darkness towards his goal. The closer he got, the louder his blood rushed through his veins and roared in his ears. His eager heart pounded in his chest, crying out for him to claim what he was owed.

The door swung inward beneath his gloved palm with little sound besides the quiet  _ whoosh  _ of the large object cutting through empty space. One, two, three steps placed him directly behind his target. The man pawed through his dresser, only half clothed in boxers and a stained wife beater. Harry’s breathing was hard and harsh as he raised the pickaxe. The man heard him and turned, raising his arms as if he had any hope of defending himself. All he could see was red as he swung down hard towards the man’s abdomen. A wet sound along with a strangled cry let him know he had hit his mark.

His vision cleared and he watched the man’s eyes bulge and the color drain from his face. His hands fluttered over the wound in his stomach through which the pickaxe was still impaled. Harry grunted as he withdrew the sharp point and cast the body to the ground. He watched with macabre fascination as blood spilled from the wound and spread across the man’s front, soaking his shirt and dripping onto the carpet.

He had worked with this man for years. He had never been particularly fond of him. Now, however, he loathed him. He had blood on his hands and Harry was more than happy to dirty his own if it meant he could dole out punishment. The adrenaline racing through him felt good, and his revenge tasted sweeter than any Valentine candy.

The man continued to sputter on the ground as he bled out. Harry would have loved to watch him suffer for his transgressions, but he was still on a strict time schedule. He brought the still dripping pickaxe above his head and brought it down hard and fast, burying it easily in the man’s skull with a crunch and then a squish in rapid succession. After that there was no more sound and no more movement from the corpse on the floor.

Actually removing and retrieving the heart from his victim was the most difficult part of the entire operation. Harry had to hack away at flesh and bone before he could finally reach his hands into the chest cavity to remove the organ. He did not want to damage the heart, it had to be recognizable to serve its purpose, but he was short on time and shorter on patience. Finally when his gloves and arms were nearly soaked through with blood and gore, he had an almost completely intact and certainly recognizable heart.

Harry went back to the candy box on the coffee table and dumped the rest of the chocolates on the floor. He deposited the heart into the safety of the large, paper-lined box. He left the same way he had come in, slipping back out into the cool February air now shrouded by the darkness of the nighttime sky.

The second was even easier. Harry once again entered the house of his former supervisor with no worries of locked doors. Valentine Bluffs was a small town, and with that small town mentality came unlocked doors. People were complacent with their safety. Harry could hear the man’s familiar voice from down the hall. It appeared he was talking to himself, laughing about this or that as he got ready for the dance. Harry paid the specifics of the solo conversation taking place no mind as he approached the room.

The man never even saw him coming. He barely had time to gasp before Harry was upon him, cutting him down where he stood. This one’s heart came out much easier as well, now that he knew what he was doing. There were a few different candy boxes to choose from at this house. Harry took the largest and was on his way, now with his Valentine’s present to the town in tow.

Downtown was surprisingly empty as Harry lurked around in the alleyways and back roads. He slipped into the entrance off the alley, eyes sweeping the kitchen he entered to ensure that it was empty. He knew he had little chance of discovery, everyone would be off preening and preparing. 

He stepped into the open area of the union hall and froze. Nearly every surface was covered in red, white, and pink. Cupid and heart-shaped cutouts littered the walls, streamers twisted and draped across the ceiling. The freshly pressed stark white table cloth trimmed with intricate lace was spread and upon the covered table was sugary treats and candies. Platters of chocolates and cookies, a red punch that would undoubtedly be spiked by the end of the night, and the traditional cake decorated with red and white frosting all made an appearance.

It seemed the perfect place to leave his special gift to the people of Valentine Bluffs. He situated the boxes at the edge of the table, watching as the paper packages had already begun to spill their contents and deep crimson dripped from his gloves onto the once pure white tablecloth. A heart-shaped card was the perfect final touch, inside were his warnings and instructions. 

If they were smart, they would heed his warnings and abandon the hated holiday for good. No matter their decision to listen or not, he had ensured that the festivities on that night would be cut short. Now he just had one final issue to deal with and his work would be complete.

Just what would he do with you?

The walk home was uneventful with the exception of the internal conflict that was happening between his head and heart. And then he caught himself. “Home”. He still thought of the little house as home, that same little house where you lived. It made sense, he assured himself, he had lived there for so long and it did belong partly to him.

It was well and truly dark when he entered the house for the second time that night. He knew the layout well enough that he could maneuver with only the scant light from the street lamps outside spilling through the gaps in the pinch-pleated drapes. He approached the bedroom with a growing anxiety, and he hated himself for it. If he had just stuck to his plan, there would be no reason to feel anxious. He could have left town, content in the knowledge that his work was done. Instead, he found himself standing on the threshold of a room he had known so intimately, only now really taking it in.

He had been in the room when he was there before, but at the time he had been drowning in an overwhelming cocktail of churning emotions, driven to accomplish his goal but torn. His tunnel vision had prevented him from actually seeing the room. For all intents and purposes, it was much the same as it had been a year ago.

Your dresser was littered with trinkets and jewelry. He spotted a picture frame sitting two one side and his heart skipped a beat. He recognized it without a doubt. It was a picture from when the two of you were younger, when your relationship was new and you were both learning what it meant to be in love. You had convinced him to load up a bunch of stuff into that truck you were so proud of and head to the beach for a day in the sun. He could still remember the sound of your laugh and the feel of your sun-kissed skin as you kissed him beneath the shade of a multicolored beach umbrella.

He stepped further in, moving towards the bed. He peeled off his gloves that were saturated with blood, setting them on the nightstand. The bed was unmade, your pillow indented from where your head had lain against it. The bedsheets were cool beneath his wandering hand and it felt like a lifetime ago that he woke feeling warm and safe in their embrace and yours. He always woke up first, always found himself tangled up in a mixture of sheets, blankets, and your stray limbs. That last perfect, dreamlike morning seemed so long ago, but he could still remember the details in total clarity.

_ He woke before the obnoxious trill of the alarm. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling, eyes fighting off the last blurry moments of sleep and focusing on his surroundings. The rising sun was just beginning to creep through the curtains and spill across the rumpled chenille bedspread. The weight of your arm was spread across his bare torso, and your head was tucked under his chin. He breathed in deeply, welcoming your familiar scent dancing across his senses. He trailed his fingers gently across the smooth skin of your arm, reveling in the goosebumps that decorated it in his wake. He pressed lazy kisses to your hair and forehead. _

_ You groaned as you were dragged into wakefulness, burying your face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. You pressed closer to him, not so stealthy in your blatant attempts to leech his body heat and protect yourself from the cool morning air. He rubbed your arm and shoulder with a little more force, now intent on making you face the day with him. You groaned again, but this time the sound was followed with your rosy lips pressed to his neck, his shoulder, his chest.  _

_ “Happy Valentine’s Day,” you murmured against his skin. _

He had not allowed himself to indulge in that particular memory in a long time. After the explosion and the cave in, he had used it to focus himself. He needed something to keep him grounded, something to keep his mind from straying and getting lost in the dark. But there was no way to judge the passage of time down there, and it was hard not to get lost when you couldn’t see.

He continued to drag his hand back and forth across the soft sheets until his fingers met an even softer material tucked under the edge of your pillow. Grasping it, he pulled his arm back to find a familiar plaid flannel shirt. It was more worn than the last time he had seen it, and wrinkled from being bunched up, but he recognized it as one of his favorite shirts. His heartbeat stuttered and an uncomfortable tightness overtook his chest as he realized you had been sleeping with this shirt in your bed. He could picture your form curled beneath the sheets with the garment clutched tightly to your body.

Harry stared at the dark wood of the chest of drawers in front of the bathroom and sucked in a shaky breath. It made no sense, but he knew what he wanted to do.


End file.
